


A Smile Like Snow

by NightMereBear



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:49:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28794936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightMereBear/pseuds/NightMereBear
Summary: Ferdinand is sure of a handful of things: He is sure that Southern Fruit Blend is the best kind of tea in the world. He is sure that, despite his love for music, he will never be an opera star. And he is sure that Dorothea Arnault does not like him.This is going to make being her new bodyguard infinitely more difficult.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Dorothea Arnault
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33





	A Smile Like Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I wrote this a while back for the Sweet Like Honey Ferdithea zine. I have never written anything in the present tense before, but I thought it would work the best for the particular layout of this story. Here's to Ferdithea and experimenting with new writing styles!

Ferdinand Aegir is sure of a handful of things.

He is sure that Southern Fruit Blend is the best kind of tea in the world. He is sure that, despite his love for music, he will never be an opera star. And he is sure that Dorothea Arnault does not like him—something that is going to make being her new bodyguard infinitely more difficult.

Ferdinand’s manners have always been a point of pride for him, so he cannot fathom as to what he could have said in Manuela Casagranda’s office to displease Dorothea so. Yet displease her he has, for though the pop star had smiled upon his acceptance of the offer, he’d seen warmer smiles in a blizzard.

Now here he is, his possessions packed neatly into the suitcase at his side, his heart racing as he prepares to move in with a woman he has known for a week. It seems…intimate, but Manuela—Dorothea’s infamous manager—has deemed it necessary.

“The world is filled with weirdos, Dorothea, and you have become popular enough to attract them,” the woman had said. “I am not taking any chances.”

Ferdinand takes a deep breath. He will accomplish nothing by standing here, frozen like a statue on Dorothea’s manicured front lawn. He has chosen this path for himself and will certainly not go running back to his father at the first sign of difficulty.

It is the thought of Ludwig and the life Ferdinand has pointedly left behind that has him shifting his grip on his suitcase and striding toward the front door.

Dorothea does not come out to greet him.

…

As the weeks go by, Ferdinand becomes more and more convinced that his initial assessment of Dorothea was the correct one. It is evident in the little things: The slight stiffening of her shoulders whenever he walks into a room. The long sighs when he insists on accompanying her out of the house. The way his pet-name—Ferdie—always sounds like an insult somehow. Ferdinand endures it, she is never outright cruel after all. Dorothea has simply perfected the art of saying one thing while meaning something else entirely, hiding her disdain behind pretty words and frigid smiles. Ferdinand remains completely mystified as to why.

He remains clueless as her next performance dawns, the first one she has had since Ferdinand acquired his new position.

The lights dim as she steps into the spotlight, Ferdinand’s place offstage allowing him the perfect view. Dorothea’s dress flows down her figure like liquid starlight, the crystals draped around her throat glinting brightly and reflecting mosaic patterns across the stage. When she opens her mouth and begins to sing, Ferdinand is fairly certain his own falls open.

He has heard her sing before, of course. To Dorothea, song seems as essential as breathing and she does so with nearly as much frequency. Yet it is one thing to hear the melodies emanating from behind her closed door, and another thing entirely to hear them in the open. Here, Dorothea is in her element. Ethereal, like the goddess of music made flesh.

Ferdinand is unable to look away.

When at last Dorothea takes her final bow and the ruby curtain falls, Ferdinand is sure he claps the loudest. He stands ever vigilant while she accepts flowers and cards from her many, _many,_ admirers, and he almost does not recognize the two men in upscale suits as they draw near. Then Dorothea’s smile falters and her enthusiasm dims, putting Ferdinand instantly on edge. He recognizes them then, both wealthy business associates of Aegir Industries. All three of them had attended the same high school and now work— _worked_ , he reminds himself—closely on many important business deals. He wonders why their presence makes Dorothea wilt suddenly away, like a flower left too long in the shade.

Like all the others, the businessmen rain their praises down upon the idol, bequeathing her with decadent bouquets that, individually, are nearly the size of all the others combined. Ferdinand watches, his muscles tense though he is not entirely sure why. Then he sees Dorothea’s smile. A cold, familiar smile that he thought she saved specifically for him. She looks at these men in much the same way. When at last they turn and greet Ferdinand, clapping him on the shoulder and inquiring after his recent life decisions, he could swear he hears her scoff.

He does not understand.

He does not understand as Dorothea watches the men leave, the chill in her eyes freezing her false smile in place. He does not understand as she shakes her head, turns to the nearest trash receptacle, and throws the bouquets inside.

…

Ferdinand does not often think himself a clumsy man, but an argument could be made for it today. Cookies are scattered all over the place, the baking sheet overturned and lying on the floor amidst a sea of disheveled crumbs. His wrist had bumped against the top of the oven while he’d been removing the cookie pan resulting in the kitchen’s current state of dishevelment. As if this is not bad enough, he has also completely ruined the treats he had been hoping to present to Dorothea.

Ferdinand sighs and bends down to collect them, ignoring the burn that throbs hotly atop his skin. It certainly is not one of his finer moments. Hopefully he can clean the mess up before—

“What in the world happened?”

Her voice is somehow melodic even in irritation and it freezes him in place.

His eyes slowly, guiltily, lift to hers.

“Dorothea!” Ferdinand scrambles upright, knocks his toe against the baking sheet, and sends it spiraling across the floor. More crumbs scatter in its wake.

He does not believe a pan has ever reverberated quite so loudly.

“…I seem to have made a bit of a mess.”

One single, perfect eyebrow raises.

“No, do you think so?” Dorothea’s eyes track the crumbs across the floor.

“Forgive me for making a mess of your kitchen,” Ferdinand says quickly, ignoring her sarcasm and starting for the closet where he knows the brooms are kept. “I will spare no effort in cleaning this up! By the time I am finished, the room will be sparkling! Even more so than it was before!”

“How noble of y—” Dorothea suddenly cuts off and Ferdinand glances back at her curiously. She is staring at his wrist and, just for a second, Ferdinand thinks he sees something like concern in her eyes. “You burned yourself,” she states. “That’s odd. I didn’t think bodyguards were allowed to be clumsy.”

Ferdinand’s cheeks burn hotter than his injury. “Yes well, we are still human, Dorothea,” he responds. It is about the closest he has ever come to mumbling. His father would certainly have disapproved. “Do not worry yourself. It is but a trifle.”

Dorothea studies him and Ferdinand nearly apologizes for implying that she was worried at all, but she speaks before he has the chance.

“Well that trifle looks painful. It will scar if we don’t take care of it.”

“We?” Ferdinand blinks at her, that single word catching him off guard. He shakes his head. “No. It is my own fault for—”

“Whatever chivalrous nonsense you are about to say? Don’t. I have a first aid kit upstairs,” Dorothea interrupts.

“But the mess—”

“Will still be here when we get back,” she states. “Come along, Ferdie.”

For the first time since Dorothea gave it to him, there is no condescension in the nickname.

None at all.

Ferdinand smiles, nods his head, and falls into step beside her.

It isn’t until later, when they are both cleaning the crumbs from the floor, that Dorothea inquires as to why he was baking in the first place. Ferdinand glances at her, but a curtain of chestnut hair hides her expression from view. He can read nothing of what she might be thinking.

“…The bouquets you received from my father’s associates,” he begins, choosing his words carefully. “You threw them away. I thought it likely that any flowers received from me might be treated in a similar fashion. I thought that perhaps you did not like such things.” Dorothea remains silent, neither confirming nor denying his suspicions. Ferdinand trundles on. “Still, I wanted to express my gratitude for your music _somehow,_ and then I remembered how happy you are when your friends bring you treats.” His eyes drop to the broom in his hand and trail across the crumb-scattered floor. He gives a hapless shrug. “Though it seems this idea too was destined for the trash.”

He dumps his handful of cookie crumbs into the garbage and by the time he turns around, Dorothea is looking at him. There is an odd expression on her face. Quizzical. As though he is a puzzle she can’t quite figure out how to solve.

“That’s why you’ve been baking all day?” she asks. “And why you disappeared to the grocery store for hours?”

“I had to find the best ingredients!” Ferdinand explains. “Snickerdoodles are your favorite, are they not?”

Dorothea’s head tilts. “I never told you that.”

“No,” Ferdinand agrees. “But they are always the first thing you reach for whenever Bernadetta brings over her baked goods. Of course, I could be mistaken! I never did confirm my suspicions with you, after all.”

But Dorothea shakes her head. “You aren’t mistaken,” she says, then smiles. A _genuine_ smile.

At him.

“Thank you, Ferdie. That was…very thoughtful.”

Ferdinand stares, feeling as though a balloon has suddenly expanded inside his chest. He remembers himself in time to smile back.

…

The voicemails from his father have begun to pile up.

Ferdinand ignores them, all the while knowing this behavior cannot last. He has started jumping guiltily every time his phone rings and Dorothea has begun to notice. It is unlike him. He is not usually one to avoid his problems. Yet ever since the snickerdoodle incident, it has become clear that Dorothea is warming to him and he cannot help but notice that the more she smiles, the happier he feels. With this revelation came the shocking realization that he does not want to return to Aegir Industries.

He does not want to leave Dorothea behind.

Of course, there is still a part of her that keeps him at arm’s length. He sees it in the way her smiles sometimes dim when she looks at him, or how she never seems entirely relaxed when he’s around. She still has not told him what he has done to wrong her, but he hopes that with time she will.

And so, the voicemails continue to build. 

He supposes it is his fault when Manuela calls to inform Dorothea that she has been booked to perform at Aegir Industries’ distinguished holiday party. Leave it to his father to find a way around Ferdinand’s extended silence. Ludwig Aegir has not made it this far in life by twiddling his thumbs, after all.

Oddly, Dorothea accepts the news with minimal enthusiasm and speaks little to Ferdinand for the rest of the week. 

…

It is a quiet drive to Aegir Industries.

Dorothea’s green eyes are vacant as she stares out the window and Ferdinand wishes he could hear her thoughts. He has never seen her so solemn before a performance and concern nibbles at his insides like rabbits on a head of lettuce. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“You look beautiful,” he says. 

And so she does.

Her hair is curled, her lips are painted, and her eyes shine with a luster that could put the stars to shame. Those same eyes shift to rest on Ferdinand and he is glad for the darkness that hides his blush from view.

“Always one for flattery, aren’t you Ferdie?” she asks. It is a rhetorical question and he honors it with silence. Dorothea tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and returns her gaze to the window. 

Ten minutes later, the limousine pulls beneath the porte-co·chère of a building so tall that the sky seems to rest on its shoulders. Ferdinand has stood in its shadow countless times before and as he helps Dorothea from the vehicle, his heart starts to pound in his chest. Somewhere, high above his head, Ludwig Aegir waits with even higher expectations.

They step through the gilded front doors and as they enter the elevator, Dorothea’s chin lifts the slightest amount. It is a defiant gesture—as though she is steeling herself for something much larger than a handful of catchy tunes.

Of course, she still sings as beautifully as ever.

It is a cozier venue and Dorothea’s songs complement the atmosphere nicely. The assortment of executives in attendance bob their heads to the music as they sip expensive wine from crystal flutes and chat amongst themselves. Periodic flashes burst to life as a handful of hungry photographers peruse the room in search of potential headlines. It is unsurprising, what with so many influential figures all gathered in one place. Ferdinand stands off to the side, avoiding the cameras and trying to pretend that he is not tuned in to his father’s every move. The man has yet to speak with him, but he knows it is only a matter of time. So, Ferdinand continues to wait and listen, trying to observe and ignore everything at once.

Another half-hour passes before Ludwig finally deigns to make his way over, his usual pack of cronies shuffling along behind him. They stand in silent observation as their boss clasps a hand on Ferdinand’s shoulder and graces him with a wide grin.

“So, what do you think, Ferdinand?” he asks, flinging his arms wide as if trying to encompass the entire room between them. “Miss your old life?”

Ferdinand sighs. He had known this moment was coming despite his hopes to the contrary. Foolish hopes. Like those of a man trying to light a candle in a rainstorm. Ludwig stares at his son as the silence between them lengthens, and Ferdinand knows that he will have to respond. It is why Dorothea had been hired, he is sure. His father is wealthy enough to afford her voice and, as her bodyguard, Ferdinand has no choice but to follow where she goes. 

He takes a deep breath.

“Believe it or not father, I am quite content where I am,” he says. “And Aegir Industries seems to have suffered no great setbacks without me.”

Several of Ludwig’s associates begin muttering to each other. Ludwig shoots them an irritated glance, silencing them before returning his attention to his son. He steps forward and lowers his voice, obviously doing his best to avoid excess attention.

“This is not a game, Ferdinand,” he murmurs. “And I have tolerated your little independent streak long enough. You _will_ return by the beginning of next month or so help me I’ll—”

“Ludwig, sir! Mr. Aegir! Allow us to capture a picture of you and your heir! It is so rare to catch you both in the same place, after all! We would hate to miss this opportunity!”

Despite Ludwig’s best intentions, one of the photographers has managed to shoulder his way through the crowd and now gestures enthusiastically at his camera. Ludwig clears his throat and steps away from his son. The smile on his face looks to be carved from stone.

“Of course,” he replies stiffly.

The camera flashes, Ludwig smiles, and Ferdinand tries not to wince at the tight grasp his father maintains on his shoulder. It is a clear message that their conversation is not over. Fortunately for Ferdinand, the moment the photo is captured, someone inquires about Aegir Industries’ most recent investment plan, and Ludwig is forced to respond. Ferdinand takes the opportunity to slip away, his gaze returning to the small stage where Dorothea stands—

She is no longer there.

His heart leaps into his throat and a frenzied handful of seconds pass before Ferdinand locates her standing near the refreshment table. She is carrying on a conversation with two immaculately dressed men who Ferdinand immediately recognizes as the ones he had seen at Dorothea’s concert. The ones whose bouquets she had thrown in the trash.

Dorothea is not smiling. She is not even _fake_ smiling. Her companions do not seem to notice, talking at the singer as if they are old friends. Before Ferdinand can intervene, Dorothea raises a hand to silence them, then promptly strides out a pair of double doors, leaving the men baffled behind her.

Ferdinand quickly follows, stepping out onto a balcony with several strands of lights crisscrossing overhead, their tiny bulbs glowing like fireflies encased in glass. The balcony is deserted, the night’s chill having chased any potential occupants inside. If Dorothea is cold, she makes no sign of it, standing poised against a backdrop of stars while staring at the city below.

“Dorothea,” Ferdinand murmurs. He steps forward cautiously, as if she is a bird he does not want to startle away. She says nothing as he draws alongside her and for a moment the only sound he hears is the soft music from some hidden speaker. Then Dorothea speaks.

“Do you remember me, Ferdie?” she asks, her eyes fixed on the sparkling lights below. Ferdinand frowns.

“Remember…you?” he repeats, confused. The corner of Dorothea’s mouth twitches.

“We went to the same high school, you know,” she says quietly. Ferdinand’s mouth falls open.

“We—but surely I would have remembered someone like you!” he protests.

Dorothea shrugs. “I was a different person then,” she says. “And there were a lot of students. But I knew who _you_ were…and I hated you.”

Ferdinand stares. “Hate…hated…? Dorothea, if I did something to wrong you in our past I… I promise you it was not intentional. Please, whatever it was, let me apologize for it one hundred ti—”

“It was nothing you did personally,” Dorothea interrupts. “But you were friends with _them._ ” She nods back in the direction of the party, to the two men with blinding smiles and full champagne glasses. Ferdinand’s stomach begins to sink as Dorothea presses on. “I never had money growing up and that made me a target in their eyes. They said horrible things to me. They behaved _so_ cruelly. But you… you _smiled_ at them. You talked to them. You let them worship the ground you walked on! They loved you for who your father was—who he _still_ is—and you were like a bee, drinking up their accolades like nectar from a flower. That’s why I hated you.”

Ferdinand’s stomach is one giant knot, shame like he has never felt before curdling within him. 

“Dorothea I… I am so sorry. It is no excuse, but I truly did not know. If I had, I most assuredly would not have—” He cuts himself off, his shoulders slumping as her expression does not change. “These words… they come a million years too late, don’t they?” he murmurs.

Dorothea studies him with a calculating gaze. Her mouth twists.

“Tonight, they looked at me like they used to look at you. With adoration and esteem. Like none of the things they said in the past mattered at all. Like they had just…conveniently forgotten.” She laughs bitterly. “They’re like leeches, attaching to influential people and keeping their teeth in long enough to reap the reward. It’s pathetic.”

Ferdinand says nothing, not wanting to speak until he is sure Dorothea has finished. She looks at him again.

“And what about you?” she asks. “Are you going to go back to your father?”

_Are you going to go back to them?_

She does not voice this particular question. She does not have to.

Ferdinand studies her blazing emerald eyes and trembling fingers. He can only guess what it has taken her to voice this question. He knows his response must be entirely honest lest he shatter the delicate trust that has grown between them.

“No.”

Dorothea blinks. This is obviously not the answer she has been expecting.

“No?” she repeats, as though she might have misheard. Ferdinand is a little surprised himself, but he smiles at the raw truth of it.

“Dorothea… I am happy with you,” he says. “Happier than I have ever been in my life. I will not deny that I initially took this position to defy my father, but I have never regretted such a headstrong choice less in my entire life. If you would have me, I would like to continue working for you.”

For a long moment, Dorothea simply looks at him. Then she takes the smallest step away.

“Words are easy to say, Ferdie,” she says quietly. “I really, _really,_ want to believe you but—”

This time, Ferdinand does choose to interrupt her. He steps forward and closes the space that Dorothea has put between them, taking her hands firmly in his. 

“Then before you doubt me further,” he begins imploringly, “let me prove it to you.”

Three heartbeats later, Dorothea relinquishes the slightest nod.

Ludwig Aegir is surrounded by his usual retinue when his son locates him in the crowded party room. For the first time in his life, Ferdinand thinks nothing of decorum as he places his hand on his father’s shoulder and spins him around, interrupting what was doubtless a long—and highly fabricated—story. The man’s eyes narrow.

“What is the meaning of this?” he hisses, his gaze darting to the curious onlookers surrounding them. To the cameras poised and ready.

Ferdinand takes a deep breath, draws himself up, and lets the words spill from his lips.

“I am not going to inherit your business, father. I want nothing to do with Aegir Industries.”

Several gasps break out from those within earshot, cameras flash, and Ludwig’s face turns a brilliant shade of fuchsia.

“Boy, what makes you think—” he begins, but Ferdinand shakes his head.

“My decision is final. I wish you a pleasant evening, but Miss Arnault and I are taking our leave.”

With that he takes Dorothea’s hand, turns on his heel, and strides away, leaving his spluttering father behind.

“This conversation is not over, Ferdinand!” Ludwig calls after him.

But for tonight at least, it most certainly is.

“Are you sure?” Dorothea asks once they have left the party behind them.

“I have never been surer of anything in my life,” Ferdinand replies.

And when Dorothea weaves her fingers through his and smiles, he knows he has never been happier.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this!! 
> 
> [ Find me on Twitter :) ](https://twitter.com/NightMereBear)


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